The Adventures of the Flying Faerie!

I Will Always Love You, Whitney…

It’s hard, as a young artist, to see so many people who’ve inspired you pass in just a few short years. In 2009, Michael Jackson passed despite a public and well-publicized “comeback concert series”, the preparation for the concert being transformed into his swan song - This Is It. Michael Jackson was my first music video - Thriller, at midnight on Halloween when I was 7 years old. I was floored by his abilities as a dancer and as a singer with such a creative vision…

In 2011, Amy Winehouse died. A beautiful singer with a powerful and passionate voice and such a public struggle with drugs and alcohol, to me she was a savior as much as she was an inspiration. In a time when I faced my darkest demons, both as a singer and as a human beings, her album Back to Black made me realize how much light there was left in the world. Her passing was hard for me to deal with…

And now, what it seems like mere moments after the death of Etta James, we now have Whitney Houston. Another artist, another talent, snuffed out from the world. Accepting this is difficult to deal with… At first you sorta think that someone is playing a prank. I heard it through Facebook so it was easy for me to put it at the back of my head, saying “Oh it’s just a prank - people like Whitney Houston don’t just die!” Well, Whitney Houston was a person - like everybody else… And people die…

Her voice was truly the end-all, be-all of voices. Young singers, male and female, look up to Whitney as the epitome of what it is to be a talented performer. To have a presence one can emote not only through actions but also through vocals is a powerful talent, and few are capable of equating with one such as Whitney’s. Her ballads, in particular “I Will Always Love You”, “Greatest Love of All” and “I Look to You”, are possibly her most memorable work - with her power and skilled vocal abilities shining through in the soulful melisma and the slow tempo, enabling her to fill every bit of those songs with her range.

To say that Whitney’s passing is a tragedy would be an understatement. It’s a tragedy that we’ll never be able to hear her sing again. It’s tragic that she went before I’m sure was meant to be her time. It’s tragic that she, like so many other performers struggling with addiction and personal issues, was parodied and often the victim of tabloid gossip and ever-circulating rumors about her weight, her drug use, her talent. It’s tragic that she was so young - only 48… It’s tragic that so many performers see their deaths at such an age - Amy Winehouse was 27 (like so many others), Michael Jackson was 50…

The cause of Whitney Houston’s death is so far, unknown. But what I think that Whitney’s death, and Amy’s and Michael’s and the hundreds (if not more) artists and people who have passed after years of drug and alcohol abuse, shows us is that we shouldn’t be casting shame and belittling those who suffer from addiction. Addiction is a disease… A disease that has taken many people from our respective lives.

We shouldn’t be ostracizing those we believe to be using drugs but try and help them. Better yet: try and get them to help themselves. Drugs aren’t bad, addiction is… But worse yet; those who cast judgment on addicts and perpetuate the cycle of self-abuse.

I wouldn’t be here, today, if it wasn’t for people who love me and made me feel needed and wanted. If it wasn’t for family and friends and Amy and Michael and Whitney giving me something to live for; showing me just how much I can offer the world and how much the world has yet to offer me.

Let us remember Whitney at her best. Let us remember Whitney at her worst. Let us remember Whitney as the woman who brought us such joy and beauty, as a woman, as a person - nothing more and nothing less.

Rest in Peace, Whitney… I Will Always Love You

Classification & Identity

I’ve recently joined an “all-inclusive” choir on Capitol Hill, that is also a public “GSA” (gay straight alliance) in which anyone can join as long as they can sing (although…) and are a welcoming and accepting individual. This choir is called “Diverse Harmony” and I have so far been to two meetings. In the last meeting, we discussed the possibility of changing our attachment (a “gay-straight alliance” choir) to something else. The “board” (our choir actually has a board) suggests changing it to “LGBTQA choir” (lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, and ally).

Immediately people began speaking up - LGBTQA doesn’t cover enough! Which is true… There’s more to the “gay alphabet soup” than what many can conceive. There’s two-spirit (TS), intergender (I), asexual (A - 2), questioning (Q - 2), pansexual (P), and it goes on and on and on…

Then there was the possibility of just calling us an “all-inclusive choir” which too many kids said was too much of a hassle to explain to people… Hypothetically speaking. The same with LGBTQQAAIPTS choir - too much to have to explain to somebody who doesn’t get it… I objected to this as well, but mostly because I hate the idea of all us being classified against our will. As nice as having our gender/sexual identity “represented” through a single letter in an overflowing sea of alphabetic fuckery may seem, I personally enjoy the all-encompassing idea of a “queer-straight alliance”.

But frankly, to me, it doesn’t really matter what we say we are. I don’t think, to me, it ever really will matter. Labels are labels and we can go through the list over and over till we’re black and blue. If I had known a “gay-inclusive” choir even existed, I’d have booked it for Capitol Hill a long time ago! I went to three high schools; at the first, it was a struggle to get the GSA just to meet once a week and an even greater struggle to figure out what to do with ourselves. At the second school, there was no GSA - just urine drug tests. At the third school, still no GSA’s but plenty religious organizations (all Christian)…

We can classify ourselves; Queer-Straight Alliance, All-Inclusive Choir, LGBTQ-whatever… But it doesn’t matter. Why?

I’ve been beaten; I’ve been bashed, battered, bruised and harassed since the day I was born simply for being who I am. I’ve been told that who I am is a crime against God and Nature itself. I’ve been made a laughing stock for simply believing that I deserve a place in the world. And I’ve fought - and I will continue to fight until the day I die… Why? Because being gay, being young, in the world we live in today, is a daily fucking battle.

Now many of you reading this right now might not agree. Some may take a more passive approach to the struggle but I don’t think so. I think that every time we silence ourselves just to get by is one more point for the bigots and the zealots who put us down every day. Who are restless…

When you’re born into a war, it’s all or nothing…

But what this choir, what this special group of thirty or so kids, have managed to accomplish, to gain, is so amazing. So beautiful. They’ve managed to grasp a concept at such a young age that so many adults may die without acknowledging. That so many of our forefathers and foremothers, and sisters and brothers, that have come before us couldn’t even dream of discovering.

Tolerance… Acceptance… Unity! It seems like an alien concept to so many close-minded individuals, but we are capable of working together to produce both an amazing sound and an amazing idea. Kids - gay, straight, bisexual, trans, queer, questioning, what have you - working together to form bonds and form a cohesive wall of sound.

That to me is so beautiful - why label it? So many people want to destroy the beauty, the art, that is so naturally produced by the very universe itself. Classifying something abstract like art and sexuality is, to me, one of the biggest issues this world is facing. I say: let our audience decide what to call us. Let them classify us, because they’re going to anyway. To many we’re “the gay choir”, to others we’re the “fag choir”. Identifying as a single objectifying label is difficult.

Let the words flow free….

But that’s just my opinion. Lol :-)

A Self-Inspirational Speech

Connor, get up. You can do it. Put your feet firmly on the ground and push. Push. Push. Push. You are not weak. You are not stupid. You are not ugly or a freak or someone nobody wants to be around.

You may think there’s no hope. You may be scared. But that’s okay. You have a right to be scared. You’ve been forced out of two homes in the past two months and you don’t know where you’ll be staying in two months. Believe me: you have a right to be scared. But, don’t let that fear control you.

Thousands upon thousands of people are left penniless and homeless. Bereft of self-control, bereft of sanity and bereft of a place to stay, they wander and are left vagrants. You are different. You refuse to let yourself be burdened or changed by this sudden alteration in your lifestyle - you have put on a brave face and your casual smart attitude and held your head up high. Because of this, you’ve made your family and your mother so very proud of you.

The people who thought you’d fail. The people who thought you’d fall flat on your face. The people who thought that by now, 3 months away from home, 3 months without a home, 3 months without a real job, you’d be in the middle of a nervous breakdown. (Although giving pep talks to yourself on an open forum is a little Sybil-y.) All of those people are eating their words.

You could’ve run away. You could’ve hid under a rock and stayed there until the world, or your life, decided to end. And as much as you may not want to say it, as much as you may deny it, you’ve thought of ending it all. And you haven’t. You’ve stuck it out. You’ve made a name for yourself, you may not have established yourself but you are taking steps towards your goals. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Now - you’re depressed. Well Connor, you’ve always been depressed. But look at you! You were once a small boy who cried whenever his family neglected to take him to the store every week. You were once an awkward teenager who hated himself and made everyone suffer for it. You were once a young adult struggling to find himself and find his place in the world. Now, you have a choice: show how much you’ve grown in the nearly 20 years of life you’ve experienced so far and be both an inspiration and a leader to thousands of LGBT homeless kids everywhere that you can make it out of the pit of despair with your body, mind and soul intact, or stay down. Stay down and take everything anyone has ever done or given to you since you were born. Stay down and let every teacher who has ever gone out on the limb for you, who has ever taught you anything.

Stay down and you’ll never need to come back up.

But you have so much to get up for. You have a family that supports you and friends that enjoy your company. You have so much talent and a potential that could rock this world. You have a dream - to see national marriage equality and the end of socially acceptable homophobia. You also have a goal - to have a hand in that dream coming true.

You can do this Connor. You can live and bring so much inside your head to reality. You can give hope and show the kids of tomorrow that you don’t have to sell your body or give up your dignity, your values and put your life on the line just so that you can have a place to live.

Get up Connor. GET UP!

… You’re doing it, Connor… You’re surviving…

An Ode to Man-on-Man Marriage

It will not be perfect.

There will be nights where I don’t want to look at your face. But I’ll be perfectly happy looking at the back of your head.

There will be times where we won’t get along at all and fight for hours. (Thank the God we were officiated under for angry sex.)

There will be days wherein I’ll just want to be alone. But stubborn you will want to walk in and hold me, knowing that that’s what I wanted all along.

There will be heartbreaks and depression. There will be times where the only thing we have is each other. There will be good days and bad days, and good nights and bad nights.

There will be times where you’ll want my honest opinion, and me being an intelligent fellow knowing to just smile and nod.

There will be a goldfish, then there will be a cat, then there will be a puppy, and then there’ll be a child we adopted or received via artificial insemination. Those pets will make us believe we’re ready for a child. That child will help us recognize that nobody is ever ready for a child, but we’ll love them more than we believe any parent is capable of loving a child.

There’ll be confusion. There’ll be times where you’ll support me and there’ll be times where I support you. But there will never be a time where we don’t support each other.

There’ll be trials. There’ll be times where I, seeking to satisfy a carnal alpha male need within me, will want to seek my pleasures outside of our bedroom. Or maybe it’ll be you. (And who can blame us? We’re rapidly aging men who need to have our lessening sexual appeals validated by those around us.)

But I’ll always warn you. I’ll always be honest. Even if you don’t want to hear it. Because that’s my way. Just like your way is your way and I would never wish to change that.

Three-ways will always be planned in advance. And you’ll never ask for a woman because you know vaginas scare me. And I’ll never ask for a younger man because I know how you get jealous.

I’ll never try and put you in a box. I’ll never expect you to fulfill a traditional husband (and/or wife) role. I’ll never expect you to “serve me”.

And when we fight, I promise not to do that thing with my voice that I know I do when I fight with my family. And when we fight, you promise not to start doing that thing you do with your fingers that you know you do when you fight with your father.

And when I’m angry at you, I promise not to blog about it.

I promise not to sacrifice but to compromise, either your needs or my needs. Equally. For we are not servants to each other. We are not the standard nuclear family. For we were not raised in the standard nuclear family. We are aware that no family is the same as another and that no family is perfect.

We are aware of each other. We are in love with each other. Tied together for all eternity. That is my promise to you. To never forget how much I love you, even when I so dearly want to.

The end…

I Got Beat Up Last Night!

Last night sometime between 1:30 and 2:00 in the morning I was walking home from a friend’s apartment only 3 blocks away. Along the way this woman crying and trying to get away from this man, who apparently was her “boyfriend”, caught my attention. I examined the situation and tried to work, in my head, what to do. I decided to try and see if the woman needed help by asking if there was a problem and the man proceeded to try and be as physically violent as he could. He called me a “faggot” (an epithet that lost its power after I heard it for the 1000th time in my sophomore year) and tried punching me and throwing me around.

After showing what I believe to be a feeble attempt at violence (frankly my brother and I have gotten into more explosive fights), I was left with a couple cuts around my eye. He then picked up my glove and attempted to walk away with it but frankly I was just not going to have that. I wasn’t going to lose money (having to buy a new pair of gloves) because of this idiot so I tackled him and grabbed my glove. I then ran right into my apartment; btw this happened right outside my building.

Now I’m obviously shaken. I’ve never been in a physical altercation in the city. I fear that had the man been drunker or more accustomed to attacking a man (from what I can imagine, he’s more experienced in wife-beating) I could’ve been seriously hurt. But the thing that shakes me the most was that, at one point during the “beating”, I called out to a passerby and screamed “Call the police”. Obviously, this man believed these words to be code for “walk away and forget everything you’ve seen.”

Now I’m a creature of knowledge - I enjoy examining every situation I experience from every view point imaginable. My attacker obviously has some unmet homosexual tendencies which cause him to lash out at not only the women in his life but your common garden gay. Additionally, those who saw me get beat up in the middle of a populated downtown area at 2 o’clock in the morning most likely thought it was some problematic drug deal gone bad as opposed to the domestic interference that it was. The woman, in turn, was most likely elated to have her boyfriend’s rage turn to someone else.

Of course I’m left with the usual psychological and physical scars that are common with these kinds of outtings. I have two cuts around and above my eye. I was a little skittish at the idea of turning off the television before going to sleep (so instead I left it on all night). But, I still have my health and I still have my humor! Why? Because at least that BITCH didn’t get my glove!

That’s what I’ve gained from this experience. I stood up to an obviously deranged douchebag and although I’m not a muscular meat-head or someone who regular engages in physical violence I got away mostly unscathed. I ran away with my dignity by not letting him turn me into a victim. By not letting him take my glove, which would most likely have been a trophy, I kept him from making me into an everyday victim who just sits back and takes whatever is handed to him simply because he picked the wrong fight. I stood up for not only that poor woman but also for myself.

I survived my first fight in the big city! Next time, I’ll wait until I at least take a tae bo class.

My Glee Problem: Tina Cohen-Chang

Now it’s no secret that “Glee” (a popular musical comedy television show airing on Fox every Tuesday night at 8 p.m. standard time) is not the most well-received television show on the planet. Since its inception, created by Ryan Murphy (of Nip/Tuck fame, imagine the odds), Ian Brennan and Brad Falchuk (I don’t know about them or care), it has received both critical acclaim and critical panning, with such criticisms aimed at the visibility or use of its LGBT cast and characters (Chris Colfer’s character, Kurt, now a household idol for teen LGBT culture was originally viewed as a painful stereotype) as well as its tumultuous and often out-of-character storylines and dialogue (i.e. when Rachel suddenly became all “Pro-Christmas” despite being so pridefully Jewish, and acting out a horrible Jewish stereotype by being portrayed, albeit momentarily, as greedy). Additionally, the show has seen a lot of ups and downs for it’s so poorly seen LGBT couples (Santitany and Blurt).

But I’m not here to talk about how very little we see of Kurt and Blaine’s relationship or how G-Rated Santana and Brittany’s relationship is (as if hugs and finger-holding equate to a full blown love scene) especially in comparison to how much we see of the heterosexual couples and their… umm… rampant tongues. I’m here to talk about the show’s attitudes towards their stock characters. In particular: Tina Cohen-Chang.

Tina is portrayed by Jenna Ushkowitz (many Broadway-goers know her from the King and I) and has been with the show since the pilot. She was initially portrayed as a stammering, Asian-American goth chick with an introverted attitude. She didn’t have much to say and in fact rarely spoke at all - with very few solo’s I might add. I’m not here to complain about her visibility, because while she may not have gotten all the big storylines, she has been a major supporter to all the major storylines - backing Kurt when he was being harassed by Karofsky, supporting ex-Artie despite their rather shaky break-up, and supporting her boyfriend, who was being torn by his love for dancing and his love for his father.

But my true problem with her status on Glee is what I love most about this character. She’s always a supporter. She’s always there to lend a helping hand to her friends but rarely gets any screen time of her own. Unless it’s to complain about how much harassment the Glee club gets or to glorify how great her hot Asian-dancer boyfriend is, she rarely talks at all. In fact, I think her most formidable storyline was in-episode resolved and involved her pretending to be a vampire to scare the obviously ill-placed, unprofessional and misguided principal into letting her wear her gothic clothing. BTW: She no longer wears black…

Not that I’m complaining that she no longer represents the goth teens, I just think it’s a bum wrap that we didn’t get to see her character develop. We saw her boyfriend, Mike Chang (weird that they have the same last name), evolve from a quiet football player to a dancing, singing frontman. We saw her ex-boyfriend evolve from a shy, complacent guitarist boy into a cool, collected hot rod. We saw everybody evolve except Tina. She did so behind the scenes. And that pisses me off.

Especially when you consider how much screen time stock characters like Sam (whose most interesting aspect is that he looks great with his shirt off) and that fuzzy-haired ginger boy have gotten since their inception. Meanwhile Tina just sits at the sidelines and waits… for Season 4 when all the major leads go off to “college” (or not depending on which creator/writer you talk to). However, she will have to contend with Blaine’s ever-rising star (the writers can’t stop themselves at this point - they have to ride the Gay Blaine Train). She also has to deal with the additions of the 4 winners (yes 4 winners) of the Glee Project, Season 1 as well as the imminent winners of Season 2 (let’s just hope Ryan and Brad keep the number of winners in the single digit category). I just hope that whichever schizophrenic nutjob is already writing scripts for next season hopes to take some time for the character who, among the list of exacerbated characters and personas developed within the show’s short but miraculously elongated 3-season run, appears to be not only the sanest character but also the only one in possession of common sense and human sympathy. The character who has been around since the beginning and has stuck through being ignored and being completely undermined.

Tina Cohen-Chang, Jenna Ushkowitz, I hope when they finally decide to let you go and be fabulous all on your own, they at least explain your absence without the use of a cutaway scene (i.e. Lauren Ziszes’s departure). Good Luck.

When You’re “Ready”, You’ll Know It

“When you’re ‘ready’, you’ll know it.”

That’s what everyone tells me whenever I bring up the occasional, odd-balled question in one of my manic-depressive rants. “Why don’t I have a boyfriend? Why am I so alone?” I scream and wail while pretending not to know the reasons. Frankly: I’m not ready.

I’m very independent. I’ve always been independent. At 13 I decided that I was tired of having to ask my mom for a ride to the library, so I biked there. Like 10 miles. Of course, the next year I discovered the bus. At 15, I decided that I didn’t want to have to wait to fall in love to lose my virginity so I found a very horny shaggy-haired d-bag to take it for me. At 16, I decided that being in a relationship was both an extreme pleasure and a constant prison, neither of which I felt I deserved so I cheated on said d-bag, several times. At 17-18, I went from boyfriend to boyfriend, from fling to fling, taking a little bit of wisdom from all of them.

I’m not ready for love.

And not the puppy love I’ve experienced. Not the cutesy wootsy love you say accidentally to the guy sleeping in bed next to you before going to sleep. Not the love you tell a friend or relative or ex-boyfriend on the phone. The biggie, bountiful, bombastic love that you read about in articles and books and magazines and watch unfold in movies and television shows that never makes sense to you because you’re like “You just met you idiots! Don’t get married! You just MET!”

Now that I’m an adult, nearing my twenties as it approaches with the speed of an impending comet destined to land straight on the top of my head, I’m realizing every day just how much I deserve but also how much I’m ready for. I deserve to go to school and learn how to become a better person and a stronger person. I’m ready to go to school and expand my mind and my circle of friends. But I’m not ready for a relationship.

And let’s face it, it probably won’t be a while till I’m ready to let someone into my life or my heart. I am worth just a little over $300 (maybe, if I can just get that comic book addiction under control), live on my sister’s floor (a very nice but extremely dirty air mattress) and am dependent on her for a lot of my needs (shower, place to put food, electricity, blah blah blah). I don’t want to move from being dependent on my mom to being dependent on my sister to being dependent on a boyfriend. I’m not that kind of person. It’s taking all of my strength not to scream and say “I’d rather be homeless than have to depend on someone for money or shelter. I want to be able to afford it on my own or not at all.” But I’m smart enough to recognize that in times of crisis, humbling yourself is the best thing you can do.

The second best thing you can do is recognizing your priorities and reorganizing them to accomodate the situation you’re faced with. I’ve recognized that friends and family surrounding me is more love than I think a boyfriend could ever attempt to match up with. I’ve recognized that I need food stamps, not love coupons. I’ve recognized that my twin bed air mattress can only fit one person (good luck dudes who think they can get in a cuddle). I’ve also recognized that my sister’s apartment is only big enough for one person and she’s gracious enough to let me stay here. I’m not pressing my luck or my capacity for humbling myself by going out and finding me a sugar daddy.

To me, something not earned through the resources given to you by genetics, nature and your family (intelligence, cunning, uTorrent) is something I don’t deserve. I like earning what I have. I like buying things. I like the idea of renting an apartment, I would prefer to live alone but I know that when I get a job I wouldn’t be able to do that so most likely I’ll have a (hopefully heterosexual or unattractive) roommate (cuz I don’t have sex with the people I live with) who shares the rent and utilities.

When I’m ready for love, when I’m ready for a relationship, I’ll know it. And most likely, the person who wants to person who wants to be with me or the person I want to be with will also know it. In the meantime, I’m happy with my life. Sure I’m a bit of a slut, but I’m a smart slut.

Enjoying the single life, bitches. XD

(Source: out.com)

Everybody’s Boyfriend but Mine (PDX Dreams)

I have a bad habit… I’m not talking about biting my nails, even if I do that… I’m not talking about picking your nose, even if I… know somebody who does that. And I’m not talking about taking recreational drugs to the point of a complete mental breakdown, leaving one a useless, drooling fool. I’ve never done that but at this point in my life I’ll try anything once.

No, I’m talking about the worst habit of all: falling for unavailable men. In my opinion, the greatest sin of all. I try very hard not to. I attempt to engage with guys who aren’t committed, heterosexual, drug addicts, homeless, guys who have more jobs than I have feet, guys with extremely clingy boyfriends (they didn’t watch the episode of Barney about sharing, obviously) and guys who care more about their phones than they do about seeing me. However, these guys never call me back. It sucks but it’s true.

The only times anybody ever texts me voluntarily are between the hours of midnight and sunrise. Someone with the self-esteem of an aged, alcohol-addled spinster would take that as a sign that you’re not that attractive in direct daylight, me: I take it as a sign that people believe me to be only good for sex.

There are some solutions to this poorly structured scenario: go on the instinct that I’m only good for sex, become a prostitute and wait until someone Pretty Woman’s me. That, or move.

I’m contemplating a move to Portland, Oregon right now. And I know it sounds relatively silly, getting a crush on someone, it not going anywhere and deciding to just leave. But you know what? Fuck it, I’m tired.

I’m tired of being in this environment. Seattle was once so interesting and new, now it’s just ironic and cynical in it’s dark ambience.

Besides, it’d be nice to meet a new group of people. At the moment, I’m only planning a vacation to Portland. However, if things go well, I’m going to move there for sure. The change of scenery would be nice, plus my sister and I might kill each other if we continue living together without a single vacation between the two of us. And if anybody is going to take a vacation, it should be me because frankly I’m going insane.

I feel like eating until my pain goes away… Sadly I got full before I could lapse into a diabetic coma. So tired of falling for guys who don’t know I exist/follow another, less attractive, less interesting, less faithful, emotionally-manipulative queen too busy powdering it’s face to realize that my friend is attached to his finger like a yo-yo and is just as easily manipulated as one. I hate Seattle at the moment.

Some people say that if I left for a bit and took a holiday, I’d appreciate Seattle more. Some say that I should do my best to simply enjoy myself. Some think the likelihood of me finding a job in Portland is just as likely as me finding a magic lamp in the bowels of Ann Coulter’s uterus and getting 3 wishes from Rick Santorum. God I hope so…

Gayborhood a.k.a. The Last Bitch Standing

I am not a party person. Plain and simple: the party gene was never a part of my installation pack. I have the dancing capabilities of a semi-lobotomized squirrel and am just as comfortable with touching people I don’t know (sometimes even people I do know) as I am comfortable with drinking a gallon of homeless people saliva.

While this is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, in the gay community (by gay I mean subtract the LBTQIA from the rainbow spectrum) it does make it extremely difficult to socialize. In fact, it decreases the socialization factor detrimentally by about 99.999%.

Facing facts here, the gay community ages 16 to 45 (and beyond in special circumstances) revolves around the clubs. People meet at the clubs, they socialize at parties organized by people who go clubbing, and these people are not always the end all be all of empathy, understanding and kindness.

True, if you pretend like you’re having fun people will flock to you like gnats to a urine stain. But I’m not one for pretending I’m something I’m not. Even when I’m paid to do so, I feel ever so slightly uncomfortable. I.e. when I recently took a job at Macy’s, I had to pretend that I was comfortable selling shoes. In reality: I despise the idea of someone spending a hundred dollars on something they could get at Payless for $19.99. I think it’s a shoddy way of selling another person’s perception of fashion (which, nowadays, is hooker heels and Jessica Simpson’s creative abortions).

But I go to the parties and the clubs and the parades and go through the craziness anyway. Why? Because I don’t necessarily like being alone. Problem: I know too many people. Washington has an extremely small gay population, and we all, in one way or another, know each other. (And we all share the same names, except me, thank God.)

“Oh em gee, I was hanging with Lance yesterday.”

“Lance K. or Lance J.?”

“Lance X.!”

“Who’s Lance X.?”

“That guy who used to date Michael.”

“Michael D. or Michael N.?”

“Michael J.”

“Who’s Michael J.?”

“He dated you!”

And it goes on and on and on… until finally we have reached the first gay to walk the planet: Steve. (As if Adam didn’t have needs.)

And when I go to parties, and I either don’t know anybody or am within spitting distance of somebody who actively hates me, avoids me, ignores me or made me feel like crap in high school, I immediately go into my shell. And that shell is a venomous neuro-toxin called “Sarcasm”.

In the small likelihood that anybody would even attempt to approach me (I usually make it a point to turn off my gay vibe so as to keep the flies at bay) they always have to start in on “Why do you look like you’re going to kill yourself?”

“Oh no! I look suicidal? I was trying to look schizophrenic.”

“Why don’t you go out on the floor and have some fun?”

“Why don’t you get that thing fixed?” It sounds mean because it is mean. I carry no falsehoods when I say that put in a situation where I’m not completely comfortable, even if put there by my own volition, I can be a huge bitch. And while lady-bitches are celebrated in the gay community, gay-guy-bitches are looked down upon as party poopers and Kathy Griffin-wannabes.

I recently was kicked out of a party after, of course, leaving five minutes before. You want to know how this happens? Plain and simple: I spent some time making fun of a sharp-haired young man someone had asked me, oh so politely, to make fun of. Frankly, I usually don’t focus my anger on somebody I don’t know - I prefer someone to know why I’m being mean to them, otherwise it’s just meaner than necessary. For the most part I try to piss on people who deserve it, like someone who insults me first, someone who insults my friends, and those who give alcohol to minors. That irks me… But I was having a very bad night and I felt like unloading on somebody. Of course I had also unloaded on a couple other people inside the party, and many of those jibes were aimed at the host, so suffice it to say I stopped being welcome about thirty seconds after I left.

I, just a half hour ago, went to Neighbours’ underage night. I got in at 9:15, less than 45 minutes later, I’m home. In one corner was this sad little honky who is randomly mean to me for no reason (literally: no reason, I try and keep track of reasons why people hate me and for the most part do a pretty good job and this person is purely insane for no real reason). On the dance floor, dancing next to a tall, tan, skinny guy who has no idea how to dance (at all… while I may not last on my feet for longer than thirty seconds, at least I know how to dance) was a kid from my high school whom I’m fairly sure I insulted once and now he just sorta ignores me. Frankly, I prefer that he ignores me because frankly every time I engage with someone from high school, they immediately make me fall back into my high school, giggly hag fag personality. But still, it’s strange seeing someone I knew in high school smoking and fooling around with chicks (even though I’m sure he’s gay - it’s cool if he’s not but still… get a room) and bumping and grinding and doing things I could only imagine happening at a prom (and I didn’t do that at my prom so you can imagine).

I’m a party pooper. I don’t care about that. In fact I’m kind of proud of this. I think it sets me apart from the other gays and makes me even more unique amongst an extremely unique community. But, and I can’t stress this enough, being unique at a place like Neighbours is unheard of and extremely frowned upon. And besides, I wouldn’t have a fun time at a party or a club, so the fact that I go and actively don’t have a fun time despite the fact that I know going in that I won’t enjoy myself is truly astonishing to many people. It’s like when someone like Lady Gaga says she doesn’t enjoy too much attention; your immediate response is “Then why go through all that?”

In this instance, they’d say “Why pay the $5 cover charge? Why go without having any friends to go with? Why sit down for a half hour, not talk to anybody then leave and watch sitcoms about single women and movies with Tina Fey?” The answer isn’t simple because I don’t know. I don’t know why I want so badly to be a part of my community of young gay men. I don’t know why I want so badly to have one of those clandestine meetings where I see someone across the dance floor and we immediately click like two puzzle pieces and enjoy a good two months of pure, unbridled passion before not speaking to each other again and ignoring each other on the street.

Yep… don’t know why.